Chapter 471: Psyche (4)
"My lady… please don't move too much," the maid murmured gently, her hands steady as she ran a fine-toothed comb through Aeliana's hair.
Aeliana exhaled through her nose, forcing herself to still. She hadn't even realized she had been fidgeting.
Things had already changed.
She had barely been back in the mansion for a full day, and yet everything felt… different.
The halls were no longer suffocating. The air no longer carried that heavy weight of stagnation, that sense of slow decay that had clung to her room for years. Servants no longer looked at her with pity or whispered behind her back about whether she would make it through another winter.
And most obviously—
She didn't wear a veil.
She had always kept her face hidden, avoiding the stares, the looks of barely-concealed disgust, the reminder of what she had lost. But now… now she didn't.
The maids had noticed.
Even if they tried to act reserved, their stolen glances, their barely-contained curiosity betrayed them. Some looked in awe, others in disbelief.
But this one—
"Matilde," Aeliana murmured, recognizing the maid's familiar touch.
Matilde had been one of the few who had tended to her even when she was sick, one of the few who had never recoiled, never hesitated to be near her even when her illness had been at its worst.
Now, as Matilde carefully brushed through her hair, her movements were the same. Steady. Careful. Familiar.
Aeliana sighed. "You don't have to be so cautious."
"My lady," Matilde chided softly, "your hair is softer now, but it still tangles easily. If I rush, it will pull."
Aeliana hummed in acknowledgment, glancing at her reflection in the mirror.
'So, this is me now.'
Healthy. Whole.
It still felt strange.
She had spent so long wasting away in that dark, suffocating room, too weak to even think about walking through the halls of her own home. But now, she was getting ready to venture out once more.
Though, before anything else—
She would have to meet with her father.
'Madeleina.'
Aeliana's fingers curled slightly against the armrest of her chair.
The memory was still there. Sharp. Unyielding.
Madeleina.
The one who had smiled so sweetly over the years, who had pretended so perfectly.
And then—
'My lady… please die, so he can move on.'
Aeliana's breath remained steady, but the echo of those words burned through her mind. The memory of cold hands pressing against her back. Of the ground vanishing beneath her feet. Of the abyss swallowing her whole.
She hadn't forgotten.
She would never forget.
And now—
Now, she had returned.
It was time to take care of this.
"My Lady?"
Her thoughts snapped back into focus at the sound of Matilde's voice.
She blinked, shifting slightly in her seat. "Hmm?"
That was when she saw it.
The faintest flicker of hesitation in Matilde's face.
Not alarm. Not outright fear.
But unease.
Aeliana frowned. "What is it?"
Matilde hesitated, then shook her head quickly. "It's nothing, my lady… I only…"
Aeliana's gaze sharpened.
And then she felt it.
Something.
Something emanating from her.
A strange aura.
Not rage. Not hatred.
Something deeper, something colder—like the whisper of something awakened, something that had been dormant for far too long.
Matilde's hands had paused mid-motion, still gripping the comb. She wasn't shaking. But she had noticed.
Aeliana exhaled slowly.
'Control yourself.'
She wasn't weak anymore.
And soon—
Madeleina would understand that.
******
Love.
It is a strange emotion.
Perhaps the strangest of them all.
It builds kingdoms and burns them to the ground. It drives men to war, to madness, to ruin. It has toppled emperors, unraveled legacies, and left nothing but ashes where once stood greatness.
And yet, for all its destruction, love is what people chase, what they worship, what they carve into the fabric of history with blood and devotion.
I have read about it—countless stories of emperors ordering massacres, of kings waging war for the sake of a woman's favor. Men who have stolen, killed, betrayed, all in the name of love.
Fathers who have slaughtered cities to avenge their daughters. Lovers who have burned temples to reclaim what was taken from them.
And in the telling of these stories, one truth remains constant—
It is always men.
Or, at least, that is how history chooses to remember it.
Men are reckless, loud in their madness, making spectacles of their grief. They are the ones who plunge swords into enemies and carve names into history with the weight of their fury. They are the ones who are remembered, whose love is measured by the bodies they leave in their wake.
But does that mean women do not do the same?
Ah.
No.
They do.
Just not in the ways one might expect.
They may not set the cities ablaze… but at the same time, perhaps that is only because they often lacked the power to do so to be frequently recorded in the history.
After all, power—true, unshackled power—has nearly always been a privilege of men. Given to them freely, placed in their hands by the structure of the world itself. A man scorned can raise an army. A man betrayed can carve his vengeance into history with fire and steel.
But a woman?
It is a slight difference.
When a woman chooses cruelty, when she decides to act, her methods can be far uglier.
Because where men break, women unravel.
They poison reputations, twist truths into daggers sharp enough to cut deeper than any sword. They do not strike with brute force; they peel their enemies apart, layer by careful layer, until nothing remains but ruin and regret.
And in those moments, when the mask of gentleness slips, when the cruelty is laid bare—one thing becomes clear.
They do not think they are cruel.
No.
Most of the time, they believe they are justified.
It is oftentimes shared by men with extreme leanings over the crime.
A woman will weave her own reasoning into something airtight, untouchable—a justification so deep, so sacred to her mind, that she will never see herself as the villain.
Even if she shatters someone's life.
Even if she is the cause of another's suffering.
Even if she destroys.
She will tell herself she had no choice. That she was pushed into it. That it was necessary. That the world itself forced her hand.
And the most terrifying part?
Most of them truly believe it.
It is what I call inner justification.
A quiet, relentless force that allows them to sleep at night, to look at their own reflection without flinching. Where a man may wrestle with his conscience, torn between guilt and desire, a woman will forge her truth into something so unshakable that she may not even recognize it as a lie.
It borders on delusion.
And yet—within her mind, it is nothing but logic.
A queen poisoning a rival princess? It was necessary for the stability of the kingdom.
A noblewoman destroying a common girl's reputation? It was for the good of the family, to preserve what was rightfully theirs.
A mother raising a blade against her own daughter? Ah, but it was love, wasn't it? A twisted, bitter love that told her it was better this way.
Men, for all their recklessness, for all their destruction, often know they are monsters.
But a woman?
Enough rambling for now though, is it not?
Because I see it.
That same delusion flickering behind her eyes.
The quiet, unshakable certainty.
Not regret. Never regret.
No, what shines in Madeleina's gaze is something far more dangerous.
Conviction.
She is not a woman burdened by guilt. She is not someone haunted by the weight of her choices. If there is hesitation in her, it is not because she wonders whether she was wrong—it is because she wonders why I am questioning it at all.
She believes, with the same ruthless certainty that has guided her this far, that she did what needed to be done.
That Aeliana's fall was justified.
That the world itself had forced her hand.
Ah.
So that's how it is.
That's how she sleeps at night.
I exhale lightly, shaking my head. "Do you love the Duke?"
Her expression remains still.
Not a flinch, not a twitch, not a single shift in the carefully constructed mask she wears.
Just silence.
And then—
A glare.
Sharp. Unyielding. The kind of look meant to cut a man down without the need for words.
That alone is my answer.
I smirk.
Of course.
Of course.
The silence is not hesitation. It is offense.
She does not wish to dignify such a question with an answer. Because, to her, the answer should be obvious.
The answer is in everything she has done.
She pushed Aeliana.
She chose the Dukedom over herself.
She burned away whatever weaknesses might have held her back.
If that is not love, then what is?
And yet, in all that cold, unwavering certainty, I can see it—the one thing she will not acknowledge.
"Answer?"
It is the fact that, she can't stand seeing the man she loved still not moving over the past.
And the fact that she holds no place in his heart.
Chapter 472: Pscyhe (5)
"Answer?"
My voice is quiet, but the word carries weight, pressing into the silence between us.
Madeleina does not move.
For a moment, I wonder if she will ignore me entirely, if she will simply sit there in her perfect, practiced stillness, waiting for me to grow bored of the question.
But then—
Her lips part.
"It is irrelevant to this conversation."
Ah.
A carefully chosen answer, precise and calculated. Neither confirmation nor denial, simply removal—as if the very idea of acknowledging it would give the question power.
I exhale through my nose, amused. A soft chuckle escapes me as I lean back against my chair, watching her with renewed interest.
"This is quite unlike you," I muse, tilting my head slightly. "Even though I gave you an honest answer, this is how you repay mine?"
Her eyes narrow, sharp and cutting. "You didn't give me an honest answer."
"Oh, I did," I counter smoothly. "It's just that you didn't accept it."
Silence.
A flicker of something crosses her expression—gone before I can name it.
She inhales slowly, as if steadying herself, before shaking her head. "It is pointless to argue with you."
I smirk.
"Ah," I hum, as if pleased. "Finally, something we can agree on."
She does not dignify that with a response, but I can see it—the faintest tightening at the corner of her lips, the barest shift in her posture.
This conversation is frustrating her.
Good.
I want to see how long she can hold onto that perfect composure before something breaks.
Because the truth is, no matter how much she justifies her actions, no matter how much she tells herself that what she did was necessary—
She cannot stand it.
And I want to see it.
She exhales, slow and measured, pressing whatever irritation she feels back into the depths of herself.
A moment passes.
Then—her eyes sharpen.
"If you know so much," she says at last, her voice steady but laced with something careful, something probing, "then tell me—how did it happen?"
I tilt my head slightly, letting the question settle between us.
"How did what happen?" I ask, all light amusement, all deliberate nonchalance.
Her fingers tighten ever so slightly against her sleeve.
"You know what I mean."
I do.
But I want to hear her say it.
So I wait.
She watches me, unmoving, then exhales sharply through her nose, as if annoyed with herself for playing into this.
"How did you save her?" she asks, the words quiet but edged. "How did you know how to cure Aeliana when no one else could?"
I hum, considering her question.
There are so many ways I could answer.
I could lie. I could twist the truth. I could offer her a thousand explanations, each one plausible, each one a game of half-truths and misdirection.
But I don't.
Instead, I lean forward, resting my elbows against my knees, watching her closely.
"Would you believe me if I told you?"
Madeleina does not answer right away. Her jaw tightens.
"You expect me to believe you came from another world?"
I smile, slow and knowing. "Ah, so you were listening."
She does not react. But that, in itself, is a reaction.
Then—
Something shifts in her expression. A flicker of something quiet, something dangerous, something unspoken.
And then she says it.
Not directly. Not with outright accusation.
But close enough.
"If you knew how to cure Aeliana," she murmurs, watching me carefully, "then why did you wait all this time?"
The question is soft.
But beneath it—beneath the carefully measured words, beneath the veil of neutrality she tries to maintain—there is something else.
A protest.
A whisper of resentment.
Not for Aeliana.
For herself.
Because before—before Aeliana was cured, before this moment—there was still a chance.
A chance for her to hide her intentions. A chance to weave a future where the truth was never uncovered.
But now?
Now, Aeliana has returned.
Now, the past cannot be buried.
Now, she cannot be saved.
Because with Aeliana alive, with Aeliana healed—the truth will be revealed. After all, Aeliana must have witnessed it directly.
Because I know one thing for sure, even though I did not witness that scene directly.
She was there, in that moment—at the edge, at the brink, staring into the abyss of her own end.
And Madeleina was the one who sent her over.
But it's never just silence, is it?
No.
People like Madeleina—people who convince themselves they are right, even in their cruelty—never leave without a final remark.
A final whisper to cement their actions.
It is oftentimes the same for criminals.
It's never just about the crime.
It's about owning it.
It's about experiencing that final moment, savoring the knowledge that they were the one to orchestrate it.
That they were the one in control.
They don't always choose the mistake-proof method—the clean, perfect way that ensures there are no loose ends.
Because deep down, they want the victim to know.
They want them to hear it.
They want to bask in the moment, to have that one fleeting instant where they confirm their own power, their own justification.
Madeleina is no different.
She would not have left Aeliana in that abyss without giving her something to hold onto—something that, to her, felt like truth.
And now, as I sit across from her, watching her watch me, I know—
She is wondering if I know what she said.
What words passed through her lips in that final moment.
I smile.
Not because I know the exact words.
But because I know her.
And that is enough.
"If I knew how to cure Aeliana, why did I wait this time? That is a really good question."
I raise my head, my black eyes locking onto hers.
Madeleina does not look away.
Good.
I want her to see this.
To feel it.
Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, I utter the words—
"Would you believe that if you had done your job properly, I would not have managed to cure Aeliana most likely?"
Silence.
Sharp. Unyielding.
A flicker of something crosses her face—not shock, not fear, but calculation.
And then—
"What do you mean?" she asks, voice steady, measured.
I chuckle, tilting my head slightly. "Even if I were to tell you, for you to understand everything, I would need to explain things for three hours straight."
I exhale, shaking my head as if genuinely regretful.
"But sadly," I murmur, my voice smooth, "we don't have such an amount of time, do we?"
And as if on cue—
Knock. Knock.
The sound echoes through the room, sharp against the quiet tension.
Madeleina's gaze flickers toward the door, but her posture remains rigid, her focus still on me.
Then—
A voice.
Soft, deferential.
"Mister Luca."
A maid.
"Master is waiting for you."
Ah.
Of course.
The Duke.
The man whose world is about to become far more complicated.
The maid steps forward, bowing slightly before continuing, "I was sent to prepare you for the audience. As well as etiquette."
Ah, etiquette.
How utterly charming.
I glance at Madeleina, smirking ever so slightly.
"Looks like we'll have to cut this conversation short," I muse. "A shame, isn't it? Just when it was getting interesting."
Her expression does not change.
Well, wrong. It changes.
"But, it should be good enough for your final conversation."
After all, she knows it too.
After learning the truth from Aeliana, the Duke will never spare her, after all....
Chapter 473: It has been a while
The door creaked open, and the maids stepped inside, their footsteps soft against the polished floor. They were young, dressed immaculately in the colors of the Duke's household, their movements practiced and efficient. At first, their eyes went directly to me, but the moment they noticed her, they hesitated.
A flicker of surprise crossed their faces—brief, almost imperceptible—but there nonetheless. After all, it was not every day that Madeleina, one of the highest-ranking attendants in the mansion, was found in the guest chambers of an adventurer.
Still, they were well-trained. Within a heartbeat, they schooled their expressions into careful neutrality and lowered their heads in respect. "Miss Madeleina."
Madeleina, who had remained still until now, turned her gaze toward them. There was no tension in her posture, no sign that she had been caught in a compromising situation. With the same smooth, measured grace she carried through the halls of the mansion, she inclined her head in return.
"I was simply ensuring that our guest understood his schedule," she said, her voice calm, composed. "It would be improper if he was unprepared for his audience with the Duke."
The words fell into place effortlessly, a perfect explanation, free of any cracks that could be questioned. It was a skill she had long since mastered—giving just enough information to sound irrefutable while ensuring no one could dig any deeper.
The maids accepted her reasoning without pause, bowing once more before returning their attention to me. Madeleina took this as her cue to leave, stepping past them with effortless poise. As she reached the door, she glanced back at me, her expression unreadable.
"….."
Though without another single word, she stepped out, the door clicking softly shut behind her.
The moment she was gone, the maids turned back to me, their hands folded neatly in front of them, all proper decorum and professionalism.
"If you'll allow us, Mister Luca," one of them said, "we will begin preparing you for your audience with the Duke."
I nodded, leaning back slightly as I let them do whatever it was they needed to do. The maids wasted no time, moving with the efficiency of people who had done this countless times before.
Then, without warning, one of them took a step closer—too close—and sniffed me.
I raised an eyebrow, my amusement flickering to life as I watched her, but she remained completely unfazed. Cold, professional, and utterly uninterested in how strange that action might have been. After a brief pause, she gave a small nod, as if confirming something to herself.
"It appears that you have cleaned yourself well," she remarked, her voice as neutral as if she were commenting on the weather.
A slow smirk tugged at my lips. "Just because I'm an adventurer doesn't mean I need to be smelly."
The maid met my gaze evenly, unshaken. "Pardon my rudeness, but…" she hesitated only for a fraction of a second before finishing, "adventurers are often like that."
I chuckled, waving my hand dismissively. "Oh, I know. But as you can see, not every adventurer also has an audience with Duke Thaddeus, don't you think?"
A brief silence stretched between us.
Then—
"Ahem… you are right," she admitted, clearing her throat as she quickly composed herself.
I grinned, watching her regain her professionalism in real-time.
The other maids, as if relieved the conversation was over, swiftly moved on to their next task, producing fine garments and beginning the process of ensuring I was properly dressed for the occasion.
Ah.
This brought some undesirable memories.
But, I presume one way or another I would need to face them anyway.
'Right….Calm down….'
These poor maids were just doing their jobs after all.
********
The halls of the mansion stretched endlessly before her, their familiar corridors offering no comfort. Each step echoed against polished floors, the sound steady, unwavering—but her thoughts were anything but.
Who the hell is he?
Madeleina's fingers curled slightly, her nails pressing into the fabric of her sleeve.
She had come here to confirm one thing. That was all. She had long since accepted what was to come—long since understood that her place in the grand scheme of things had already been set.
Her end was inevitable.
She had no regrets.
She had only wanted answers.
And yet—
That man.
Luca. Whatever name he called himself.
Something about him unsettled her.
It wasn't the way he spoke—though his teasing, infuriating way of twisting words into weapons had certainly tested her patience. Nor was it the way he carried himself, lounging in that chair as though this entire affair was nothing more than an amusing inconvenience.
No.
It was the way he looked at her.
Like he knew.
Not just about Aeliana. Not just about the past.
But about her.
About things no outsider could have possibly known.
That smile of his—it hadn't been mocking, not entirely. It had been something else. Something worse.
Understanding.
Her stomach churned at the thought.
What was he?
He was too young. Too unimportant. An adventurer, of all things. Someone who should have been beneath her notice. And yet, in that dimly lit chamber, with those black eyes fixed on her, she had felt—
No.
She had known.
This man is dangerous.
Not because of brute strength. Not because of power or status.
But because he sees.
He sees far too much.
And that—that—was terrifying.
Madeleina exhaled slowly, forcing her thoughts into order.
The Duke would summon her soon.
She would face what was coming.
She had always known this moment would arrive.
But now—
Now she had more questions than answers.
Madeleina's steps slowed as she passed beneath the towering portraits lining the corridor. The dim light of the lanterns flickered against gilded frames, casting elongated shadows along the walls.
Then—her eyes caught on him.
The portrait of Duke Alistair V. Thaddeus.
The father of Duke Thaddeus. The man her own father had served with unwavering loyalty.
Her throat tightened.
His gaze was as piercing as she remembered, even immortalized in oil and canvas. The artist had captured his sharp, unyielding presence—his regal stance, his severe expression, the weight of responsibility woven into every brushstroke.
Memories stirred, old and worn, but never forgotten.
'Father…'
The word slipped from her lips before she could stop it.
And then—his voice.
Not in reality. Not in sound.
But in memory.
"Aeliana."
The name rang through her mind, a ghost of the past.
Her father had always called her by her middle name when speaking of duty. Never Madeleina. Never his daughter.
"Our family has always been attendants, and we will always remain so. Do not ever forget our family's first and most important conduct…"
Know your place.
The words had been etched into her from childhood, spoken with quiet finality, drilled into the marrow of her bones.
Know your place. Serve with unwavering devotion. Never forget whom you belong to.
Madeleina swallowed, tearing her gaze away from the portrait.
It was a bit late.
Chapter 474: It has been a while (2)
The fabric draped over Aeliana's form like liquid silk, smooth and weightless, a stark contrast to the heavy robes and dull garments she had worn for years. The dress clung just enough to remind her that she was alive, that her body was no longer frail, no longer confined to shadows and whispers of sickness.
Aeliana stepped forward, her movements effortless, the faint brush of the air against her bare skin a startling sensation. How long had it been since she had felt something like this? Since she had worn something so elegant, so unashamedly bold?
'Too long…'
The grand mirror reflected an unfamiliar sight. The woman who gazed back at her was no longer the pitiful thing that once lurked behind veils and closed doors. No sunken cheeks, no frail limbs struggling to bear their own weight.
No hesitation.
Aeliana ran her fingers lightly over the embroidered patterns along the fabric, relishing the sensation of something beautiful against her skin. The cool touch of the fabric, the way it moved with her, not against her—it was freeing in a way she had nearly forgotten.
She turned, and her gaze swept across the room, catching the subtle shift in the maids' expressions. Admiration. Uncertainty. A lingering trace of awe.
They were looking at her differently now.
Not as a fragile girl destined for a quiet, tragic end.
Not as a ghost of a past best forgotten.
But as Aeliana.
Her lips curled, a small, knowing smile ghosting her features.
'I really missed this.'
Missed being seen. Missed the feeling of something as simple as silk against her skin, the way the air moved around her freely instead of being filtered through thick, suffocating curtains. Missed the weight of expectation and presence instead of pity and hushed voices.
She let out a slow breath, turning towards the grand doors that awaited her.
Yes, this was right. This was how things should be.
"My lady… how are you feeling?"
The question came hesitantly, laced with a quiet, careful apprehension. The maid's hands were clasped tightly in front of her, knuckles pale against the soft fabric of her uniform. She wasn't trembling—not quite—but there was a distinct wariness in her posture, an unspoken bracing for impact.
Aeliana knew why.
The weight of her past actions still lingered in the walls of this mansion, in the way the servants measured their words before speaking to her, in the way their eyes flickered with something between anxiety and expectation.
How many had she sent away in the past? How many had been dismissed because of her sharp words, her untamed frustration, the way she lashed out in those helpless, fever-ridden days?
She had never been a docile thing.
Aeliana glanced toward the maid, taking in the tension in her shoulders, the nervous flicker of her gaze.
For a brief moment, she considered playing the part they all expected. Raising a brow, letting silence stretch until the girl's nerves cracked, watching her squirm just because she could. The thought was almost tempting.
Almost.
Instead, Aeliana exhaled, slow and steady.
"How do I feel?" she echoed, tilting her head slightly. Her voice was lighter than the maid had likely expected, devoid of its once-everpresent bite.
Then, she smiled.
"Free."
The word hung in the air between them, simple yet profound. It carried weight. It carried truth.
The maid blinked, clearly caught off guard. "F-Free, my lady?"
Aeliana hummed in affirmation, turning back toward the mirror, running her fingers along the fabric of her gown once more.
"For the first time in a long while," she admitted. "I feel free."
The tension in the maid's shoulders didn't disappear entirely, but it softened. She searched Aeliana's expression as if trying to decipher whether this was a moment of calm before an inevitable storm.
It wasn't.
Aeliana had no more storms to waste on people who didn't deserve them.
"Shall we go, then?" she asked, moving toward the doors with an effortless grace that had long been buried under years of sickness and silence.
The maid hesitated, then quickly nodded, stepping aside to let her pass. "Of course, my lady."
Aeliana barely noticed the way the other maids subtly exchanged glances, the way their awe warred with lingering trepidation.
She had no need to reassure them.
They would see soon enough.
The past no longer defined her.
And soon, neither would they.
Aeliana walked through the grand halls, the soft rustle of her dress accompanying each step. The maids trailed behind her, their movements practiced, respectful, cautious. She could feel their eyes flickering to her back, lingering just long enough before darting away when she turned her head even slightly.
It was the same as before.
The same reverence. The same careful distance. The same hushed whispers behind gloved hands, voices too low to catch but never silent enough to be ignored.
The same as when she had been young and untouchable, the heir of the Dukedom, the daughter of one of the strongest noble houses in the empire.
Yet…
Something was missing.
Aeliana's steps slowed, just slightly.
It was so subtle that no one noticed, but she felt it. The absence of something that should have been here.
Her fingers brushed against her wrist absentmindedly, her nails grazing over her pulse as if searching for something tangible to hold onto.
Respect. Deference. Even fear. She had reclaimed all of that.
So why did it feel… hollow?
Her eyes traced the familiar expressions of those around her, the ones that had once surrounded her before she had fallen ill. Servants standing stiffly, noble acquaintances whispering, a careful line drawn between her and everyone else.
It should have been enough.
It used to be enough.
But now, in the midst of this familiarity, she felt the weight of absence settle in her chest.
There had been something else before. Something warmer, something that had existed beyond the veil of duty and expectation.
But she couldn't quite place it.
She inhaled slowly, schooling her features into quiet composure. It was fine. This was fine.
The halls, the glances, the murmurs—it all meant one thing.
She had returned.
She had power again.
And yet—
She exhaled, lips pressing together briefly.
"What is this feeling?"
Aeliana let out a quiet breath, shaking her head ever so slightly. This wasn't the time to dwell on fleeting, inexplicable feelings.
She had more pressing matters to attend to.
Straightening her shoulders, she resumed her pace, each step carrying her closer to the heart of the estate—the Duke's office. The corridors stretched before her, grand and imposing, the weight of the Dukedom settling over her like a familiar mantle.
Her father would be waiting.
And she was not a girl who kept people waiting.
When she reached the heavy oak doors, she hesitated for only a fraction of a second—so brief that no one would have noticed. Then, with the same steady confidence that had always defined her, she raised her hand and knocked.
A beat of silence.
Then—
"Enter."
The voice from within was deep, firm, a tone that commanded without needing to raise in volume. The same as always.
Aeliana pushed the doors open and stepped inside.
The study was just as she remembered it—walls lined with towering bookshelves, the scent of parchment and ink lingering in the air, the afternoon light filtering in through tall windows. And at the grand desk, seated amidst neatly stacked documents and correspondence, was her father.
The Duke.